


Matters of the Heart and Other Vital Signs

by lamentforboromir



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Clint is the asshole we all know and love, Get Together, Language, M/M, Mild depiction of an injury, Phil is a health nut, Slow Build, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 01:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamentforboromir/pseuds/lamentforboromir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In spite of his luck, in spite of his health, in spite of his control, Phil knew that if a bullet or a bomb wasn’t going to send him to an early grave, then agent Clint Barton certainly would.</p>
<p>A story about danger, donuts, and dealing with the insufferable, unreasonable, unsinkable Clint Barton.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Matters of the Heart and Other Vital Signs

**Author's Note:**

> This started with me playing around with a concept that I had about Phil and Clint in fics that I had read. And then this happened. And I have no idea what it turned into. So. Erm. Sorry?
> 
> Feels post can be found [here](http://lament-for-boromir.tumblr.com/post/28145124103/so-i-decided-to-make-a-feels-post-for-that-fic-i-wrote) on my Tumblr.
> 
> First fic in this fandom, so maybe that explains my mediocrity. All errors are mine. A special thanks to Michelle for reading over this for me and generally being fantastic.

Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD was in perfect health, and he’d be the first to tell you.

 

Genetically speaking, he was gifted. Both of his parents had excellent cholesterol, even now in their sixties. Heart disease didn’t run in the family. No one had a problem with cancer (though if Phil was being thorough, as he liked to be, there was that one second cousin in Las Vegas, but he had always been wary of her lifestyle choices). On the whole, his background was picture-perfect.

 

That wasn’t to say that he didn’t take care of himself. Quite the contrary; Dolores Coulson hadn’t raised a careless son. Phil took control of his personal health, starting with what he ate. He’d cut red meat from his diet ten years ago, stayed away from most junkie foods (save his favorite donuts, and in this line of work, they were a luxury that he could not part with), and had mildly obsessive tendencies when it came to whole grains.

 

There had been an incident once in Nepal where all he’d had access to was white bread. His response may or may not have forced Director Fury to enact a SHIELD-wide “whole grains only” policy.

 

Not that Phil was complaining.

 

His lifestyle was important to him. He was an agent of SHIELD, after all; he had to be in the best shape possible. He exercised every day and was an avid swimmer. He didn’t smoke, and on the rare occasions that he drank, he did so in moderation. He kept tight control on what he put into his body and what it did for him.

 

Agent Hill had once called him a master of self-control. Whether she was mocking him or not, he’d never quite know, but he agreed with her regardless.

 

He even impressed the medics. At his last mandated screening, the attending physician had checked his vitals, fixed him with a look, and let out a long whistle. “Never cease to amaze me, Coulson,” he’d said as Phil finished buttoning up his shirt. “Keep up that blood pressure and you’ll live forever.” Phil could only give a sheepish grin in return.

 

So, okay, he was proud of the way he managed to stay in control. He was allowed to be. He’d worked hard to get here.

 

Still, Phil had a definite sense of his own mortality. He was constantly reminded of it in this profession. He’d been shot at. He’d been in burning buildings. He’d been waterboarded. He’d seen Director Fury when he was _really_ angry, and that was saying something. Nasty things seemed to manifest themselves when Phil Coulson was on the scene, but that was the nature of the job. That was SHIELD. And he knew that, sooner or later, it would catch up to him. But he was an excellent agent in the face of it. His perfect health had to count for something.

 

But in spite of his luck, in spite of his health, in spite of his control, Phil knew that if a bullet or a bomb wasn’t going to send him to an early grave, then agent Clint Barton certainly would.

 

—

 

When Director Fury had called him in to review the file of SHIELD’s newest agent, Phil had been impressed. And in this job, that was saying something.

 

Clint Barton, age 26. Orphan. Runaway. Former carny? Phil raised an eyebrow at the file in his hands as he made his way to his office. Yep, former carny. Right there. The file also labeled him as a “skilled archer,” though if Phil was being honest with himself, he’d note that “skilled” was a vast understatement if the footage Fury had shown him was to be believed. “Master archer” seemed a more apt description.

 

Phil turned a corner, mentally checking off Barton’s additional qualifications. Weapons expert. Acrobat. Fantastic long-range vision. Phil was safely impressed. Perhaps even a little excited at the prospect of being Barton’s handler. Other than working toward the greater good (a promise he had made to his Captain America poster when he was six years old), working with new agents was Phil’s favorite part of the job. He loved teaching them about SHIELD protocol. He loved seeing the new ways they’d respond to conflict. He loved learning what made them tick.

 

And based on his colorful profile, Phil expected that he’d learn quite a lot from this Clint Barton.

 

He did not, however, expect to find Barton already in his office, crouched over his desk, tinkering with the Newton’s cradle that sat there and muttering to himself.

 

“—is this supposed to be _relaxing_ or something, Jesus, what is this even _for_? Bored execs? What do you even do with this—?”

 

Phil realized that he’d been standing in the doorway for a solid ten seconds, giving the back of Barton’s head a perplexed look as the new agent babbled to himself. He didn’t even seem to notice that Phil had come in. With a quick shake of his head, the senior agent cleared his throat.

 

Barton didn’t so much as flinch. “Yeah—sorry, just a little distracted with this thing,” he said, poking one of the clacking metal balls. “I mean, what’s the point of these things, you know? Stress relief? Because if I had to listen to that, I’d be annoyed out of my skull—”

 

Phil cut him off with, “Is there any particular reason you’re going through the contents of my desk, agent?” He crossed his arms over his chest, tucking Barton’s file under one.

 

That got a response. Barton turned to face him, all dirty blond hair and clear blue eyes. “Beg your pardon, sir, but if I was going through your desk as you said, I’d have to be rifling through it. Not just playing with your weird ball-thingy.” He gave Phil a considering look. “I could do that, if you wanted. Be more thorough.”

 

Phil felt the first phantom strains of a headache. Strange. He usually didn’t get those, except for when he was under particular stress. Or when he was being hung upside down by his ankles. But that had been years ago. Opting to ignore the strain behind his temples with a sigh, he raised an eyebrow, focusing on Barton’s relaxed composure. “You know, not many agents have the gall to give their handlers a lot of back-talk.” He paused. “Not on the first day, at least.”

 

Barton braced himself against Phil’s desk, giving a small shrug. Phil could have sworn he’d seen the glimmer of a smirk at the corner of his lips. “Yeah, well, what can I say?” Barton replied, easy. “I like to make a strong impression.”

 

“Clearly,” Phil said with a breath. As he entered his office, Phil gestured to the chair in front of the desk, which the blond fell into with a salute. Taking his seat, he gave Barton a critical look. The file sat on the desk in front of him. “So, Agent Barton, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

“Not too much, sir,” Barton said, slouching in his seat. “Just wanted to stop by. Say hello. Meet the famous Phil Coulson. You are my handler now, after all.” He raised his gaze to meet Phil’s, clear and direct. His hair was tousled.

 

Phil felt a throb behind his right temple. Famous, that was a new one. “I appreciate the sentiment,” he replied drily. “Now, are there any actual questions that you have about SHIELD?”

 

The other shrugged. “None at the moment. I think everything was pretty well covered in Fury’s brief.” He pursed his lips. “But is retirement covered?”

 

“So long as you don’t defect,” Phil replied. “That should have been covered by Fury.”

 

“What about funeral expenses? You know. In lieu of retirement, I guess.”

 

Phil knit his brow. There was no joking in Barton’s tone, no glimmer of mischief that Phil had seen earlier in the blue eyes that were looking back into his. Strange, but Phil set it aside, answering with, “Taken care of.”

 

He felt another throb behind his temple as Barton ran a hand through his hair. “Good to know, then.”

 

Phil gave a nod, and ow, that might not have been such a great idea. The pressure behind his temples was building. This was odd. He straightened Barton’s file before touching his fingers to one temple.

 

Barton cleared his throat. “Is there, um, something wrong, sir?” One blond eyebrow was raised.

 

Phil let out a breath of a laugh. “Just a slight headache, agent. Nothing to worry about.”

 

Staring at the folder in front of him, Phil compiled a mental checklist, as he was wont to do when things were out of whack. He’d had enough water. His eyes hadn’t been strained. No exposure to loud noises. He hadn’t had too much sodium. He didn’t _get_ headaches anymore. What was the problem?

 

“Yeah?” Barton’s lips curled into the faintest hint of a smirk. “Funny. My old trainer used to say I was good for those.”

 

“Good for what?” Phil asked. “Headaches? You mean like a remedy?”

 

“Nah,” Barton responded, eyes alight. “Good for causing ‘em.”

 

For whatever reason, Phil accepted it, lowering his eyes. “I don’t doubt it, agent.” He could almost feel himself smile. “Anyway, unless you have any more questions, you’re free to go. I expect to see you for training at 0700 hours tomorrow morning. I assume you can find your way back to the barracks?”

 

Barton ignored him. “Lemme go get you some Advil or something,” he offered, cocking his head toward the door.

 

Phil shook his head, gently this time, though it still made him wince. “No need for that, agent,” he replied. “I can take care of it. Just a little more water should fix it.” He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, fishing out his water bottle.

 

Barton looked unconvinced. “Right,” he said, dry. “You do that, and I’ll be back with meds. Ten minutes.” With that, he stood up from the chair and made his way to toward the office door.

 

“Wait, wait,” Phil said, and Barton turned to give him a considering glance. “Agent, I told you I could take care of it. I’m fine.”

 

The blond simply gave him a shrug in return. “Well, you’re my handler now, right? You take care of me, I take care of you. Simple.” He turned. “Nice talking to you, sir.”

 

And with that, he walked out the door.

 

A few moments later, Phil realized that he’d been staring after Barton. Strange. With a sigh, he reached into one drawer and pulled out a file. Mindless paperwork hopefully held the answers. It seemed as though his headache wasn’t going away anytime soon, he mused as he put pen to paper, and he sincerely doubted that Barton was going to return with the Advil he’d promised. He didn’t know whether to feel annoyed or flattered at the offer to begin with.

 

As long as this was a fluke in his system, Phil could handle it. He could handle one tiny headache.

 

Couldn’t he?

 

—

 

Barton had returned that afternoon with a bottle of Advil in hand and had left without another word.

 

As the months went by, Phil saw more of him. Their first assignment was a short stint in Bosnia, three weeks after Barton was recruited. After Bosnia came Tehran, then Florence and Shanghai in one of the more bizarre weeks in Phil’s career. Assignments fell into place with regularity.

 

Unfortunately, so did Phil’s headaches.

 

He was slightly astounded—as far as he knew, he kept MSG out of his diet. He had no reason why he should be suffering. (Okay, so there was the time in Ireland that Barton’s antics had driven him up the wall enough that he’d caved and had actually eaten local food. But that was one time.) Even the medics were perplexed.

 

“Is the stress getting to you, Coulson?” Dr. Henderson had asked as he turned away from the examination table, clipboard in hand. “Maybe it’s all that paperwork catching up to you.”

 

Phil had snorted a laugh in reply. “Doc, no offence, but if it’s paperwork that’s getting to me, then I really don’t deserve to be an agent.”

 

And that was that. No real explanation. Nothing rational that Phil could change or dismiss. And that’s what troubled him most. He was able to control himself. Why couldn’t he change this?

 

But there was a voice in his head, one that grew steadily louder, that said that the headaches came whenever Barton was near.

 

Not that he let it worry him. It was probably nothing.

 

But he couldn’t quite dismiss it, even after the three years Barton had worked for SHIELD, the small warmth he felt when he walked in his office every few weeks and found a new bottle of Advil sitting on his desk.

 

—

 

Phil stared at map in front of him, dumbfounded. His jaw was slack and he tightened his grip on the back of his chair. Something hot pushed up in the back of his throat.

 

He took a breath, fingers in a death grip on his radio. “You care to run that by me again, agent?” he asked, voice laced with venom.

 

“I’m not going to do it, Coulson,” Barton replied, resolute. “I’m not.”

 

Phil glowered. “You had specific orders, Barton. We orchestrated this entire operation for this moment, and you’re telling me that you’re not going to do it?”

 

At this very moment, Barton was somewhere in the Krkonoše mountain range, faced with a downed Black Widow while Phil ad Maria Hill waited in a neighboring resort town for him to just _do it already_.

 

This was the moment that SHIELD had been waiting for: to finally take out the infamous Black Widow. And Barton had already incapacitated her with a tranquilizer. He just needed to go in for the kill. It was literally that easy.

 

And instead, Barton was telling Phil that he wasn’t going to do it. “You heard me, sir.”

 

Agent Phil gave Hill a quick look, concern darkening her eyes. “What’s he doing?” she mouthed.

 

Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he focused on a spot on his desk, fighting the bitter warmth rising in the back of his throat. He needed a Tums, stat.

 

“Barton, listen to me,” he said, and he did his best to hide the anger in his voice. “This woman is bad news. She’s killed over a hundred people—”

 

“And so have I,” Barton snapped. His tone was dark.

 

“Important people. She’s a career criminal, Barton.”

 

“Does that honestly make a difference, sir?”

 

Phil squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel pressure behind his eyes, that now familiar throbbing in his head. Just what he needed. Headache, heartburn, and an agent who defied orders. Hill was still watching him. He decided to blame it all on Barton. With a long, even breath, Phil asked, “Why won’t you do it?”

 

Hill’s eyes flashed with anger, but Phil paid her no mind. He might as well figure it out.

 

He heard Barton sigh on the other end. “Because she’s like me. Because she’s afraid of dying. Because—fuck, I dunno—”

 

“Language,” Phil quipped.

 

“How is that still an issue, seriously?” Barton asked, and there was a hint of his usual humor in his voice. He gave another sigh as Phil stared at the map of the mountain range, chewing his bottom lip. “I just. I can’t kill her. I can’t physically bring myself to do it.” He paused, took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was stronger. “You want her dead? You do it. I won’t.”

 

Phil shook his head. “You realize that you’re risking your job for this woman? You can’t just fall for the pretty face, Barton.”

 

“Fuck, after seeing the way she fights? I don’t think so.”

 

Phil didn’t bother to reprimand Barton about the language. Hill was still watching him. He knew what she’d tell him. _Send in someone else. Get the job done._ Phil bowed his head, forcing deep breaths. He couldn’t believe he was actually entertaining this. “And what do you propose we do with her, agent? Rehabilitate her? Make her a functioning member of society?”

 

Barton replied with a laugh. “Yeah, maybe. Or she could come work with us.”

 

Phil almost choked. “You mean to tell me that you want this woman, a hired assassin, to waltz in and wear our uniform?” Hill looked like she might have a stroke. “Are you serious, agent?”

 

“Think I am, sir. Besides, I have a feeling Fury’d like her.”

 

As Hill reached for her own radio, Phil forced a breath. He could taste the acid in his throat, and god, that was awful. The tension behind his temples was sharp, tugging. Damn it. He was still bowed over his desk, allowing himself a moment to wallow in self-pity. Why did _he_ always have to deal with these things?

 

Barton had been an agent for nearly four years now, and while it seemed like a short amount of time, he had never given Phil a reason to doubt him. He was smart and capable. He made good calls when the decision was his. And Phil most always supported him.

 

But could he support this?

 

Hill’s voice was suddenly in his ear. “Coulson, I’ve got back up at the ready. They’ll go in and take her out. Just give the word.”

 

Phil gave a breath. He looked up. “Do you understand exactly what you’re asking, agent?” Every word was deliberate.

 

“Yes, sir. I do.”

 

Fury was going to slaughter him.

 

“Is there anyone with you?” Hill looked at him, dumfounded.

 

“Nope,” Barton replied. “Just me, her, and a bunch of goddamn snow.”

 

“Good,” Phil answered.

 

“Have I ever told you how much I hate the snow?”

 

“Several times, actually,” Phil said, and he would have laughed but for the dread in his stomach. “Get back to base, agent. Cuff her. Restrain her. Whatever you have to do. Give her another sedative, if you have to.” He paused, considering. “Actually, that’s for the best. Give her another sedative. You do _not_ let her wake up and you do _not_ let her escape. You understand that?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Phil nodded to himself. “Get her back here. We’ll construct a holding cell and bring Fury to talk to her, if he doesn’t kill me first.” He wasn’t sure just how sarcastic he was being, and yeah, that scared him. “And be quick about it,” he added.

 

“Yes, sir,” Barton replied. “And…thank you.”

 

“You owe me, agent,” Phil said. “You owe me big.”

 

He heard Barton’s laugh in response and heaved an exhausted sigh. His head was pounding, he had heartburn, and all he wanted was a greasy cheeseburger.

 

“Are you serious?” Hill asked him after his radio went silent. “Did you really just allow Barton to make that call on his own? He doesn’t have that kind of authority.”

 

Phil swallowed. “I trust him, Hill,” he said. He straightened up from his desk. “Now, I am going to make a few phone calls, find a way to survive Fury’s wrath, and make sure that the woman successfully contained. Then I am going to find the greasiest cheeseburger I can, even if I have to scour the Czech Republic.” He raised an eyebrow. “You’re welcome to join me, Maria.”

 

Hill couldn’t quite argue with that.

 

And Phil stuck to his plan, though it still managed to surprise him when he came back to his makeshift office a few hours later, cheeseburger wrapper in hand, and found a bottle of Tums on his desk.

 

—

 

Things changed in the years following.

 

For starters, Black Widow was now simply Natasha. She wore the uniform. She worked for the “good guys.” And she seemed pretty happy about it. She got on well with Barton, especially. From what Phil could tell, they were attached at the hip.

 

So that was different. Nice, but different.

 

Then there were the Avengers, a new area of SHIELD operation. Phil had gotten to meet his childhood hero. They had saved the world several times by now. They were good press. And they acted like five year-olds in their downtime, which meant Phil was resident babysitter. It didn’t do good things for his health, even though tasing Stark made him feel better.

 

Phil had taken on another responsibility, and that was different. Whether it was nice or not depended on both the day and whether Steve managed to control Stark.

 

Phil’s interactions with Clint changed, as well.

 

The bottles that he left on Phil’s desk bore little notes in the years following the Krkonoše incident. Usually, they all read the same, all written in Clint’s untidy scrawl. “Sorry for the property damage.” “Hope this makes you not want to kill me.” “Glad you’re not actually dead.” And Phil’s personal favorite, “Here’s to not feeling like shit. (You mind if I borrow these, because fuck.)”

 

After Budapest, Barton left him a bottle of Xanax with a note that said simply, “Sorry you had to see that.”

 

It was considerate of Barton, certainly. It was a nice gesture. Once, he’d even proclaimed himself the “sole protector” of Phil’s health as he delivered a packet of Alka-Seltzer. Phil had aimed a paperclip at his head.

 

Barton had even begun visiting Phil in his office, sometimes for five minutes, sometimes for hours, feet propped up on the desk as he told Phil stories about life in the circus.

 

They were almost…friends.

 

Maybe that’s what it was. Maybe that was what Phil was feeling.

 

Maybe it was normal for friends to stare a little too long at the tousled blond hair, to save each other’s notes in their desk drawers, to feel _warm_ at the sound of each other’s laughter.

 

Maybe that was it. Phil tried not to read into it. Entertaining anything else just made him want to give up and eat fried chicken for the rest of his natural life.

 

So they were friends. Even if Phil was starting to want something a little more, they were friends.

 

He could handle that.

 

And even if he couldn’t, he still waited for those moments that Barton would pop in unannounced, drop some form of antacid on his desk, and distract Phil from his paperwork.

 

—

 

The mission in Qatar was supposed to have been simple. It was supposed to have been easy.

 

It seemed, at first, like any other assignment. Phil stood alone in the control room back at base, watching the available monitors and scanning the view of the port at Mesaieed. There were four main areas of the port, stretched along the shore. At one end was one cluster of ports, one through three. Beside it was port four, sanctioned by itself. At the other end were ports nine and ten. A red office building was erected between port four and ports nine and ten. Phil gave it a considering look before glancing down to the notes in his hands. According to recent reports, AIM was shipping weapons out of this port under a false company name. Twenty-first Century Mechanics and Business Solutions. And they were scheduled to make a shipment today.

 

The Avengers had arrived to answer.

 

Phil trained his eye on the red building that stood out between the ports. “Hawkeye. Report.”

 

A familiar scoff sounded on the other end of the comm. “Not too sure what you want me to tell you, Coulson.”

 

Phil resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I take it that everyone is in position?”

 

“Yeah,” Barton said. “Cap and Black Widow are in ports nine and ten. Thor’s got port four, and Iron Man and the Hulk are taking the first three.”

 

As Barton listed off positions, Phil looked to each on the screen. Good. “And yourself?”

 

“Sitting pretty atop the port offices, sir.” The red building. Phil kept an eye on it. “Pretty nice view from up here. I could get used to it.”

 

Phil let out a breath in response. It was almost a laugh.

 

Barton snorted. “What, sir? You expect anything else?”

 

Shaking his head, Phil mumbled, “You know, Hawkeye, after all these years, I really shouldn’t.” The faintest hint of a smile played on his lips, and he did his best to ignore the small tightness in his chest.

 

“I’m hurt, sir,” Barton drawled. “Truly.”

 

“You’ll survive.” Phil turned his attention to ports nine and ten. General cargo. “Captain America, have you found anything yet?”

 

“Not yet,” Steve’s voice came in reply. “There’s a lot to look through, though. I’ll keep you updated.”

 

“Y’know, Coulson, why doesn’t Stark just scan each cargo hold?” Barton asked. “Probably be more efficient, right?”

 

“Because I’m not SHEILD’s drug dog, Barton,” Stark snapped. He was sensitive about agency appropriation of the suit, even if he was still in it.

 

Phil could hear Barton’s pout when he said, “Coulson, he’s being mean to me.”

 

“Chatter,” Steve cut in, ever the responsible team leader.

 

“Oh, yeah,” Stark said. “And Barton’s working so damn hard, chewing the fat with Coulson.”

 

“You’re just jealous because I’m his favorite,” Barton shot back gleefully.

 

Slipping a hand over his face, Phil heaved a sigh. Sometimes it was hard to believe that this was his life—dealing with petulant superheroes. “Yeah, okay, whatever, just listen to the Captain, both of you.”

 

Steve let out a deep sigh as Stark replied with, “Yes, mother.”

 

Then Barton gave a small laugh and Phil suddenly felt…warm.

 

He shook his head. Neither the time nor the place to think about this, he reminded himself. Not when there was a job to do. He had to remember that. Attempting to regain his composure, he fixed his gaze on the monitor in front of him.

 

Three general loading areas, and he had agents covering each. They were all searching for weapons that AIM might ship. Barton was keeping an eye on everything from atop the port offices. But Steve and Natasha were the most likely to run into trouble at the main cargo bay. If AIM was operating out of this location, they would probably ship from these ports. The others saw little activity, and wasn’t AIM attempting to blend in?

 

Phil saw a ship coming a little ways off, and if SHIELD’s records were correct, it would anchor at the main cargo bay. He let out a breath, running a hand across his chin as he reconsidered positioning. Port four was small, and from what he had heard on the comm, already searched. Thoroughly. Stark and Banner could handle the first three ports on their own, Phil was sure. Maybe even the fourth, if necessary. So why keep Thor to that side when he could be of better use elsewhere?

 

“Thor—do you copy?” Phil’s fingertips pressed to his earpiece.

 

“Aye,” Thor answered. “I am here. Do you have any word of the enemy’s position?”

 

“Not yet,” Phil said. “But I’ve got a hunch. I want you to move to ports nine and ten with Captain America and Black Widow.”

 

“Coulson,” Steve’s voice cut in, “no disrespect, but Thor is stationed at port four for a reason. We planned it earlier. Who’d take his place?

 

“Hawkeye’s close enough,” Phil replied. Sitting on the port offices, Barton would have no trouble monitoring both port four and the main cargo bay. “And if there is an issue, it’s in the center. You can defend it from both sides.” He took another breath, glancing over the monitor before him. He had to be sure. “Captain, there’s an incoming ship and a shipment out of the main cargo bay for today. A shipment for Twenty-first Century Mechanics. It has to be there.”

 

“I agree with Son of Coul,” Thor intoned. “His logic seems sound enough. Perhaps I would be of better use defending where AIM is sure to strike.”

 

Steve let out a sigh. “Guess that makes sense. Alright. Thor, head over here. Hawkeye, monitor him.”

 

“Sir, yes sir.”

 

A small black speck on the monitor moved from port four—Thor. Phil gave it a glance before scanning the other ports, the surroundings, the port offices for the umpteenth time, attempting to reassure himself. This could work. He liked this.

 

“Just put of curiosity, Coulson,” Barton’s voice came over the comm, “what do you think AIM is up to?”

 

Phil shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. A little idle chatter couldn’t hurt; he knew Barton well enough to know that he was still keeping an eye out. “Couldn’t say. There’s no telling, really.”

 

“So long as it’s not another MODOK, I s’pose,” Barton mused. “One’s bad enough. And ugly as all hell, too.”

 

A smile breached Phil’s lips. “Why we continually leave the fate of the world in your hands remains a mystery to me, Barton.”

 

“As I told Stark, sir,” Barton began, and Phil could just hear his smirk, “I’m your favorite. Admit it.”

 

Phil shook his head. “Keep telling yourself that.”

 

“Always do.”

 

He stole a glance at the port offices before admitting to himself that, yeah, maybe he was getting a little too comfortable with Barton on the comm. That he should back off and be more professional. But it kept his heart rate down, at least. Sometimes Barton was just as good at relaxing Phil as he was at giving him headaches.

 

And then there was that hint of warmth, of electricity, almost, that rushed over Phil every time Barton laughed.

 

Not the time. He turned his attention to the table beside him and shuffled through his compiled notes on top. Reports on A.I.M., photographs of confirmed movement, maps, all linking them to this port in Mesaieed. A schedule for shipments, and according to their intel, AIM was shipping today.

 

Phil checked his watch. Nearly 1800 hours. He pursed his lips. Why hadn’t they seen anything yet?

 

A few minutes later, after he busied himself with checking the paperwork, Phil heard Barton’s voice in his ear.

 

“I’ve got something down south. A couple of men carrying cases. One’s got a phone in his hand.” Barton’s voice was hard, direct, the tone he saved for when things got serious. “You want I should take them down?”

 

Steve responded with, “What kind of cases?” and Phil straightened his shoulders, listening intently.

 

“Small ones, almost the size of briefcases,” came the reply. “Just deeper. Still too small to carry their usual fare, though. And these guys look like locals. No bright yellow jumpsuits, no gear to be seen.”

 

A breath. “Hold still a moment,” Steve said. “Let me know if they get any closer, and I’ll give you my word. Thor, you want to go check it out?”

 

Thor barely had time to reply before everything fell to chaos.

 

At one moment, Phil heard Stark, and he sounded worried. “I think I found something, guys,” he said. “A big something. Are you sure these guys are using the main ports?”

 

Then there was the sound of Barton’s bow whipping, of Thor crying out.

 

Of stone breaking.

 

And Barton’s voice, right in Phil’s ear: “Oh, _shit_ —”

 

Snapping his head toward the monitor, Phil felt his heart jump into his throat as he watched the port offices implode in real time.

 

Phil’s eyes went wide, his heart began to race. The heat washed from his face as he stared, dumbstruck and helpless, at the collapsing building. “Barton?” he asked, and he did his best to sound collected. “Do you copy?”

 

He was answered with the sound of gunfire and crumbling stone.

 

“Barton,” he demanded, and his palms were sweating. Nothing. For a split second, he felt like he might retch.

 

Phil tried his best to regain his composure, shaking his head even though it had already started to throb. Staring at the fiery heap of rubble on his monitor, he pressed a shaking hand to his earpiece. “Captain,” he started, and he didn’t trust his voice, “the port offices have just exploded. Hawkeye—Hawkeye went down with it.” All he could hear was gunfire and he saw the bright red beam of a laser by the main cargo bay Men were running toward the ports.

 

There was a loud groan on one end of the comm, then the clang of metal. “Coulson,” Steve ground out, “we’re held up right now—” He gave another groan and Phil’s head pounded harder. “Widow, Thor and I are doing our best to hold them back. Iron Man, what do you got?”

 

“Not too much here yet,” Stark responded, but Phil heard the telltale whir of his repulsors. “A few stragglers. What we need to is get the package out of their hands.”

 

“What we need is to get Hawkeye,” Steve cut in, and Phil felt a rush of affection for his childhood idol. “Go get him. And while you’re out there, survey the port offices, see exactly where these bastards are coming from.”

 

“And leave the package there for them to—”

 

“Just do what the man says,” Phil snapped before he realized it. And, god did he sound desperate, but he needed to stay calm. He needed to handle this.

 

His heart was still racing as Steve said, “”Leave it for now; the Hulk can act as guard. Just get Hawkeye back on the quinjet. Tell me what you see. Then you can move it.”

 

The comm went quiet as Stark moved, and Phil felt like his knees might give out. He gripped onto the table, palms sweating. He could barely catch his breath.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Stark said, breaking the silence.

 

“What?” Phil swallowed down the hot taste in the back of his throat. “What did you find?”

 

“Found _him_ , and—fuck, he’s burned. Badly.”

 

“Where?”

 

“All down his arms. Right shoulder is the worst, holy shit.”

 

Burns, they could fix. Skin could heal. But Phil’s heart nearly stopped when the thought struck him that it could actually be worse. Willing himself to sound controlled, he asked, “Is he breathing?”

 

“Yeah, barely,” Stark said. “This looks bad, Coulson—”

 

“Just get him to the quinjet,” Phil said, and forcing his tone to be even. At least Clint was alive, though it didn’t do anything to ease the racing of his heart, nor the pressure behind his eyes. “Once you’re done here, we’ll get him to medical.” He had a few calls to make.

 

“Yeah, quinjet,” Stark muttered, followed by an, “Up you go, buddy.” Phil heard the powering of Stark’s thrusters. The monitor showed him a bright red streak of movement—Stark and Clint.

 

Steve’s voice cut in. “Once you deliver Hawkeye, I need you back on the port offices. Strike these guys out from the source, and fast.”

 

Tactical words were traded, and Phil tried his best to keep up despite the throbbing of his head. The room seemed to spin around him, and for one terrible instant, he felt a wave of nausea nearly overcome him. There was a roaring in his ears and a voice in his mind telling him that they couldn’t let Clint die.

 

Clint’s life was on the line and Phil was losing his poker face fast.

 

He forced deep breaths. He was Phil Coulson. He was an agent of SHIELD, goddamn it. He’d looked death in the eye more times that he could count. He’d been stabbed in Syria, shot at in Singapore, nearly dismembered in Darfur, poisoned in Prague, and not once had he ever broken.

 

But the image of Clint Barton, bloodied and burned, was enough to make him retch.

 

Phil barely registered Stark saying, “Hawkeye’s on the jet, I’m going back in.” He couldn’t even bring himself to reply.

 

He forced deep breaths. Medical had to be notified, had to be prepared to receive Clint. And only Phil could do it. With shaking fingers, he called the medical coordinator to set up the arrangements.

 

“Agent Martin,” a deep voice answered.

 

“Barton’s burned. Badly.” The strength in his voice surprised him, but that was what SHIELD was good for: getting the job done. “I need a medical team to set up for surgery. And quick.”

 

Martin gave a breath. “Understood, Coulson,” he said, and the line went dead.

 

Phil squeezed his eyes shut, but the darkness was no relief from his aching head. The comm was silent and he was left alone to force the air into his lungs. He didn’t know how much time had passed, didn’t really _want_ to know—all he knew was that Clint was hurt and he was cowering in mission control. He stood, braced against the table, eyes closed and breathing.

 

He finally opened his eyes when he heard Natasha on the comm.

 

“Coulson, we are on the quinjet,” she said, and Phil could swear he heard a hint of strain in her voice. “Clint is unconscious, but he’s still breathing. We’re heading back to base. ETA ten minutes.”

 

Phil swallowed, and when he spoke, his voice shook. “Medical is ready for him—you know what to do.”

 

The line went silent again.

 

Phil took another breath. Ten minutes. Ten minutes and Clint would be in surgery. He gave the monitor one last look. The port offices were still smoking, but the image stood still. Undisturbed. The Avengers had won again. He’d have Natasha or Steve run it by him once they were back.

 

Right now, all he could do was breathe.

 

Clint was going to be okay. Clint had to be okay. Phil couldn’t begin to think about the alternative.

 

He had never lost agent before. Not since he had been a handler, and that had been fifteen years already. He’d had the best track record in SHIELD, and he’d be damned if Clint was going to be his first loss.

 

And, if he was honest with himself, the thought that he may never get those surprise bottles with handwritten notes again was almost too much to take.

 

One last deep breath. He straightened, arms at his side and eyes fixed ahead. He rolled his neck to the side and swallowed. He could do this.

 

Phil checked his watch. Barton would be in any minute now.

 

He made his way down to the medical bay, slowly, carefully, sure to keep his poker face on. Nurses rushed by him, pushing carts laden with syringes and medical equipment that Phil couldn’t quite bring himself to think about. He saw Martin, a small man with white hair and dark skin, barking orders for set-up.

 

Martin turned toward him and gave him a nod. Phil returned it and took a stance in the hall. He was just outside the makeshift surgery center. Plastic paneling walled in a metal table where doctors prepped, where nurses adjusted lighting. They were getting ready for Clint.

 

With a breath, Phil’s glance shifted up and down the hall. No significant movement. He swallowed, nodding at a passing agent. He didn’t bother to check his watch; they would be back soon enough.

 

A small crackle sounded over the comm, and Phil pressed two fingers to his earpiece.

 

Natasha’s voice greeted him on the other end. “We’re back. They’re getting Clint right now.”

 

Phil ignored the tightness in his chest when he answered with, “Understood. Have someone meet me outside the surgery center for a recap.”

 

“You got it.”

 

When the comm went silent, Phil closed his eyes. He could do this. He could hold this together.

 

He looked up, registered the bustling of medical staff, the way Martin ushered doctors to their stations. It was a controlled panic. They had all done this before. This was another day at work. The thought both comforted and horrified Phil all at once.

 

He turned toward the sound of hurried shouts, watched as a gurney rolled through the hall, pushed by four harried nurses. What they were saying, Phil couldn’t tell, because he was watching the gurney speed past, and oh, god, _Clint_.

 

His arms were red and raw; there was barely any skin left on his right shoulder. The front of his uniform was ripped open, and Phil could see the dark bruises that went up and down Clint’s body. Blood covered his arms, his chest, and there was a gash on his face.

 

Phil’s stomach churned.

 

He was barely able to keep up with the gurney as it sped into the surgery room. One nurse zipped up the plastic paneling as another unstrapped Clint. A team of four lifted him onto the surgery table, and Phil felt the color rush out of his face.

 

Things became a blur after one doctor made the first incision.

 

Phil refused to leave the medical bay afterwards. Attending physicians assumed it was because of his dedication to his agents. Phil wasn’t quite sure what it was, either. Whatever it was, it compelled him to drag two chairs over by the door to the surgery center and set up camp. He waited.

 

Natasha came by to fill him in on the mission. The attackers were locals, apparently hired by AIM to protect the cargo. Stark and Banner were tasked to look it over now. What AIM’s endgame was, they didn’t know. They had yet to see retaliation.

 

After she filled him in, Natasha gave Phil a look. “He’ll be okay, Coulson.”

 

Phil nodded. “I know.”

 

She left without another word.

 

The hours dragged by. Phil had stopped checking his watch hours ago; it did nothing to relieve the pounding behind his temples. The smell of the disinfectant used in the room behind him hung thickly in the air, churning something low and uncomfortable in Phil’s stomach. But he waited.

 

At one point, Steve stopped by to coax Phil to a meal. A cup of coffee at the very least. As much as it killed him to say no to Captain America, Phil politely declined. Steve gave a conflicted nod and marched away, leaving Phil alone outside the surgery center.

 

He was still waiting.

 

He had finally started to drift off when a dark-haired woman in SHIELD-issue scrubs appeared before him. Phil blinked up at her, attempting to bring her face into focus. Her nametag read Dr. Janice Donahue.

 

She looked down at her clipboard. “The surgery was successful,” she told him. “He has a broken rib, but he’s had those before. He should be used to the recovery process. The skin graft should heal within the next few days, but he’ll need to leave it alone for at least three weeks. Maybe a month.” Donahue blinked, pursing full lips as she looked down at Phil in all his rumpled glory. There was something in her eyes that Phil couldn’t quite decipher. “We’re keeping him for the next day, just to monitor him. He should be waking up soon. I assume you wish to see him.”

 

Phil nodded, head pounding and throat tight.

 

“Then go right ahead.” Donahue opened the door to the surgery room, ushering Phil in. “He’s still under,” she warned as Phil made his way inside, “but he should be up within the next few minutes.”

 

With a breath, Phil turned, willing his face to be calm. “Thank you,” he said, his voice even.

 

Donahue nodded. “We’ll be in later to talk to him. Just don’t let him do anything stupid before we get back, alright?”

 

Phil almost cracked a smile. Everyone in SHIELD, down to the last medical worker, knew Clint all too well. “I’ll make sure of it,” he promised.

 

Donahue closed the door behind her.

 

Phil could heart his heart pounding as he turned to face Clint, really looking at him for the first time. The archer’s head lolled to one side, and his face was calm in sleep. Scratches covered him; perhaps the deeper wounds had started to heal by now. As he looked over Clint, Phil took a seat next to the hospital bed, hands shaking. He couldn’t see the bandage that bound Clint’s chest; he was covered. His bare arms rested on either side of him, on top of the thin green blanket. Phil glanced over the smooth skin that stretched out over his right arm—skin that seemed to be in the wrong place. He could see the stitches, the dark seams, where the skin had been attached to salvage that which had been burned. Phil was so close, he could see the scuffs on Clint’s arms, the calluses on his hands, the stubble on his chin.

 

He could count every eyelash.

 

With a forced breath, Phil straightened in his chair. The pounding in his head had lessened somewhat. Now it was a dull throb, a ghost of pain. He glanced over at Clint again, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.

 

When he saw a twitch by Clint’s eyes, Phil’s pulse quickened.

 

He watched as Clint fluttered his eyes open, taking in his surroundings before looking to both sides. His eyes met Phil’s.

 

And yeah, if Phil was being honest, Clint had never looked quite so beautiful.

 

“Coulson?” Clint asked as he rolled his head to the other side, facing Phil. His voice was rough from sleep.

 

“Barton,” Phil replied, slipping his poker face on with ease. His heart nearly skipped. “How do you feel?”

 

Phil could see Clint’s legs move under the blankets in the attempt to stretch. Clint gave a groan, squeezing his eyes shut. With a wince, he settled and looked to the ceiling. “Like shit,” he said. “Why am I always the one to end up in the hospital? Why not Cap or Stark or someone?”

 

“Because you neither have a regenerative healing factor nor wear sleeves.” Phil gave him a look.

 

“Don’t hear you complaining about the sleeves,” Clint mumbled. He closed his eyes.

 

Phil nearly gave a start. Nearly. “Don’t flatter yourself, Barton,” he said, and he earned a small smirk in return. He crossed his arms over his chest, observing the surgery room around him. Pretty impressive for being built in less than ten minutes, but that was SHIELD for you. He cast a look in Clint’s direction. “Doc says that you’ll have to take it easy for about a month.”

 

Clint looked at him warily. “Define ‘easy’,” he said.

 

“No target practice. No strenuous exercise.”

 

“No fun. Fuck,” Clint breathed. “Really? What the hell else am I supposed to do with my time? Bake?”

 

“You could finish that paperwork you’ve been neglecting,” Phil put in. His tone was even, serious as always, because this was easy. This was familiar. It eased the tension in his head and slowed his heart rate, just a little.

 

And still, it made his heart skip, it made his chest feel just a little tight when Clint grinned at the ceiling, because he was _okay_.

 

“Nag, nag,” Clint countered with a flick of his hand. “I told you yesterday, I’ll get it done.” He closed his eyes again.

 

“We do operate on deadlines, Barton,” Phil said. He crossed one leg over the other. “You know that. Or at least, I’d hope you know that.”

 

“A little too well, sir.” Clint gave a sigh, adjusting his position on the bed. He rolled his neck from side to side before looking back to the ceiling. “So. What’s the story? What’s next?”

 

Phil raised an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

 

Clint turned, training his eyes on Phil. His brow was furrowed. “Why you’re here. Information that I need post-mission? Usually what I get up when I wake up from these things.”

 

The senior agent shrugged. “Not much that I can tell you. AIM’s motives are still unclear. The rest we’ll attempt to decipher in a group debrief.”

 

There was something in Clint’s gaze that confused Phil, that unsettled him. His eyebrows were still knit together as he said, slowly, “So, you’re not here for job obligations?”

 

Phil swallowed. “Not technically, no.”

 

“You’re just here because,” Clint paused, narrowing his eyes and staring at no one in particular, as if he were attempting to make sense of it all. “Because you want to be.”

 

At that, Phil bristled, like a rush of cold had gone down his spine. Making sure not to betray any hesitation, he took a breath. He cocked his head to the side, considering his words carefully. “I’m your handler, Barton,” he said as evenly as he could. His eyes met Clint’s, his heart thudding against his chest. It felt like more of a confession than anything. “And it’s my job to take care of you. So. I will. Simple.”

 

Something passed over Clint’s face, and Phil forced himself to breathe evenly as the archer gave him a slow, big, brilliant smile that reached his blue eyes. “You like me,” Clint said, borderline gleeful.

 

Phil’s heart was racing, but he couldn’t quite feel his headache. All he knew was that Clint was right in front of him, smiling at him like he’d never seen before, and it just about knocked him on his ass. And for once, Phil dropped the mask. He let himself smile, let himself laugh when he replied, “Keep telling yourself, that, Barton.”

 

—

 

Phil Coulson of SHIELD was in perfect health. Mostly.

 

So he indulged a little more often than he would have liked. Sometimes junk food and greasy drive-thru were saviors on a stressful assignment, and with the Avengers, most all of the assignments were stressful.

 

At least he had Clint to share his six-pack of gas station donuts so he didn’t feel too ashamed.

 

Phil still ate right most times. He still exercised as often as he could. He trained every morning and swam most every day, barring total catastrophe and other occupational roadblocks. Clint sometimes attempted to race against him in the water. Phil thought it was cute that he thought he actually compete.

 

They had seen a lot more of each other since the incident in Qatar, he and Clint. One moment, the archer was coming out of recovery with a sling on his arm, and the next, he was in Phil’s office, kissing him soundly on the lips before saying with a smirk, “Don’t worry. I like you, too, boss.”

 

Not that Phil was complaining.

 

Time had passed since, scars had healed, and Phil saw less of the headaches that had plagued him in years past. His blood pressure was steady, for the most part. He hardly needed his emergency stash of Tums in the top drawer anymore.

 

But there were times when Clint would put off his paperwork a little too long, or joke a little too much, or want to go to bed with Phil just a little too soon, all tousled blond hair and earnest blue eyes.

 

And Phil would hear the hammering of his heart and feel the heat of his skin, and he’d lean in to press a kiss to the top of Clint’s head and say, “You are going to be the death of me.”

 

But maybe, he thought, when Clint would beam up at him, maybe that wasn’t such a bad way to die, after all.


End file.
